


Always, Never

by Unbidden_Angel



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unbidden_Angel/pseuds/Unbidden_Angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Less and less, others would forget. But Ed never would. He'd always be there. Always with the same number of flowers. But never the same kind. Very sad. Bring tissues. T for cursing and Char. death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always, Never

Disclaimer:I only WISH I owned FMA. Then Ed would be having a lot of babies.

Summery:Less and less, others would forget. But Ed never would. He'd always be there. Always with the same number of flowers. But never the same kind.

Warnings: The sappy part about the birds wasn't supposed to be there. So you can just ignore that. Char. death. Mention of char. death. Really sad. Bring tissues. Slight mind-f***. Officer Hughes is alive so slight AU. Cursing. Mention of homosexuality (Man in unrequited love w/ another man)

\-----

Most people at graves are the same. They'll bring flowers, but they'll wilt. They'll soon bring more. In time, they'll start bringing less and less. They'll start to visit less and less. Then they'll start to wonder why they went to that grave in the first place. It always happens like that. They remember in the beginning, but in time, those memories will fade. And they become distant. Distant memories.-- But Ed would never forget. He came every time the flowers wilted. Always the same amount. Never the same flowers. Sometimes he'd bring a few then visit the next day with more. This would continue until the same amount of flowers as always sat on his grave.

He never forgot. Even when he was so old he sometimes forgot his own name. He never forgot the amount of flowers. He never forgot the grave. He always seemed to know when the flowers wilted. Always seemed to know which ones he would have liked and which he wouldn't have. Which he had brought and which he hadn't.

He never asked someone else to deliver them. Always himself. And he'd always sit at the foot of the grave or by the tombstone; he'd actually bought one for him. Sold himself in almost every way he could have without having someone _touch_ him in _that_ way. That was reserved for the man whose grave he was working for. Even if the reason why would have never been accepted; or sometimes even right in front of it, sitting on his grave. He'd talk and laugh and joke as if he was actually there again.

And in a way, he _was_ there again. His spirit would be there waiting every time the flowers would begin to wilt. Waiting for him to come visit with a fresh set of new flowers and stories. Fresh set of jokes. Or so he'd like to believe. He desperately _hoped_ he was there waiting for the flowers and jokes and stories. _Hoped_ he was listening and laughing along with him. Even when his breath was wheezy and tired and thick with age. When he could barely push himself up with his cane, barely sitting down to begin with.

He hoped the dead man- _no, dead friend. He gently corrects himself_ \- understood when he began to arrive later and later each day, always with a fresh set of flowers and stories and jokes and wheezing laughs. He never threw away the wilted and dead flowers. Always buried them. Some by his grave, some near his house, still the apartment above Gracia's flower shop. Although at times the stairs troubled him. He would never move out though. If any were waiting for that space, they could have it soon enough. He wasn't going to die sooner just because someone was getting impatient about living above Miss Gracia.

They'd get it soon enough, he'd tell everyone, pretending to be oblivious when he'd look away. Oblivious to their sad and horrified stares. Not even his beloved brother could convince him that he was going to get better soon. He was _old_ damnit! Let him die without a stupid fantasy of impending wellness hanging over his head. He was going to die. And it wouldn't be with some stupid illusion that he would get better either. He'd die _knowing_ that he was going to die. After all this time, he'd never forgotten the grave that needed flowers. And even when the exact number just so happened to slip everyone's minds, he'd always grab the same amount. His only regrets with the man under the dark German earth, would always include not telling him that he would return. Sent off in that rocket, he pulled the lever to force it higher in the hopes of fixing this _'problem'_ as soon as he could and getting back to him.

Never telling him _how much_ he cared. It had started shortly after they'd met. He'd planned on telling him, _really_ he had. But he'd only been seen as the crazy blond who told amazing stories- _their all true. He still thinks bitterly, wishing the other man would have realized that sooner. Wishing the other man would_ still _believe it._ -and just happened to be his friend and just happened to live with him. He was always happy and joking and laughing at the grave. Never sad, never too old, never too sick, never showing the truth.

That he _was_ sad; sad enough to still cry himself to sleep even after all this time. That he _was_ too old. That he _was_ too sick; coughing more blood than even the dead man could have boasted. Coughing enough to make it spill from between his tightly clenched fingers, hands cupped together tightly to try to keep the too-thin blood from spilling over and out. But it always did. Always left little pools of it in the creases between his sheets; the only thing to cover him in the summer. Too much pressure could force more blood out. Too much heat would thin his blood more, making _more_ blood spill out and over his tightly cupped together hands.

Winter made it thicker but he ended up with ice-clots and he froze easier. Froze more, but not _cough more_. His hair gained streaks of moon-light silver and ash-gray from all the stress of walking to his grave. Amazingly enough, this attracted _more_ people to him. Made more people want to date and marry him. But no. That right was for someone else. Someone who would never take that offer. Use that right. Dead or alive, he would have never taken it. Never used it. And he couldn't decide whether to be depressed or glad. Depressed that his feelings would have never been returned. Glad to know he wouldn't be hurting him with his sickness and his sins and his insecurities.

He walked slower with each passing day. He needed help to get around now. But he still never forgot the grave. Hardly anyone else ever visited it anymore. Only those who watched him. Watched him stumble and fall and twist and crawl to get to the grave and lay flowers there. Watched him wheeze a laugh, struggle through a joke or a story. Watched him slowly stand, balancing on his cane, to say his goodbyes to the man buried under the the man he truly loved with all his heart. Even to this very day. Years after the man had died. Years after Ed had been declared sick with a disease that was incurable. Incurable because it had gotten too far. Incurable because it was the first they'd ever heard of it. Incurable because he had denied most treatment. Incurable because he saw this as a way to see the one he loved again. Even a glance would do.

He never kissed the picture, never kissed the grave, the tombstone. He didn't want to force a kiss that wasn't wanted upon the one he loved. Didn't want to violate him, didn't want to violate his pictures, his grave. So he never kissed them. No matter how much he wanted to. Maybe someday. But not today. Maybe tomorrow, he'd tell himself. But not today. He'd just say his goodbyes, say his good nights, his hellos and good mornings. But he wouldn't kiss the grave, the picture by his bed. But it'd be soon. His time was approaching. His body barely able to sit up. So he'd let Al help him as he stumbled weakly to the grave that had been the focus of his last few years. That had been his focus since the man had died.

The final day, he brought roses. A bouquet of full bloomed blue roses that were so light in color, they appeared to glow. It truly was a beautiful sight. He managed to stumble the last seven steps, the last he knew he would ever take by himself, before falling to his knees in his usual spot just below where the man's chin would have been. Laying the flowers before the tombstone, he leans back before seeming to fall forwards, hugging the tombstone as tight as his weak arms could. He begins to whisper in the clearest voice he's had since before he got sick. He whispers apologies, whispers promises for after he's gone, whispers that even _he_ didn't know the meaning to.

When he finally leans back, a surprisingly tight grip for him _now_ clenching the sides of the tombstone to keep him from falling again, he stares at the name carved into the stone. It seems like ages before he begins to speak, voice chocked but still loud enough to be considered his old 'story and joke' voice.

"Alfons..." he pauses for a moment, as if considering what to say and whether or not to say it. "Alfons Hiederich, I love you. I have for _so_ long. Since shortly after we met. Its too late for me to tell you now, though, isn't it? After all, your dead. Been dead for years now. And I'm dying. Its so close, Fons. I can _feel_ it." he whispers in a strange rattling voice. As if death itself was pulling it from his lungs. "It rattles around in my lungs, drowning and drying them at the same time. Squeezing my insides until they burn. Forcing _more_ pain into my weary and tired bones. Forcing more and more until I can't feel _anything_ anymore. I wish you were here, Fons. Just for a moment. I'm glad you aren't. I don't want you to see my pain and suffering. I hope your happy, Fons." Here he paused to give a slight sniff. Trying, and failing, to hold back the tears running down his slightly tanned face. He'd been given most of his coloring back for today.

His eyes, however, were still tinged red around the edges. An apparent side-effect of his disease. It didn't matter anyway. Not anymore. No one would be looking at his eyes after today.

"Goodbye, Alfons. I love you and wish you many blessings. Have fun in Heaven. Send me a postcard to Hell?" the joke was weak and poorly done, but he no longer cared. Leaning forward once more, he presses his lips to the cold stone once more before leaning back and releasing his tight grip. He raises his arms and waits for Al to walk over before weakly pushing with his legs to stand. He catches on quickly and slowly helps him to stand, lets his brother stare for a few more moments at the grave of the man he loved with all his heart. He slowly and gently turns his brother around, helps him stumble down the hill to Officer Hughes' car and into the back. He holds his brother tightly to him as his wheezing comes back in full force, growing worse with every so many breaths.

They eventually reach the hospital and Al has to carry his elder brother inside, his legs no longer work, becoming limp as a puppets. He tries to ignore the sick, wet, wheezing sound coming from between his brother's parted lips. Ed is no longer fighting it. Letting the disease fully take him over. His time has come, he could feel it. And whether he fought it or not, this day was his last. They all knew it.

He was changed into a flimsy hospital gown, in a private room, in the most comfortable bed they could provide. It didn't matter, Ed told them, he wouldn't feel it long. Al tried not to cry, they all did, but Ed only had eyes for his brother. He told him to not cry. Don't be sad. He'd get to see his love soon. And Al had to live his life through to the fullest. No regrets like Ed had. Regrets much too heavy to allow him to stay on a cloud. Forcing him down, down, down into the deepest, darkest pit he could reach. It didn't help much. Gracia began to wail. Poor girl, he thought. What will she do with all his stuff?

Speaking of...where was his picture? As if reading his mind, his brother picked a frame from his pocket, reaching it to the dying man. He took it with a smile and nod. Staring up into the black and white photo, he slowly closes his eyes, lowers it to his slightly parted lips for just a moment before pulling it away. He fixes it to his chest, where his barely beating heart was before looking over at his brother. "This one." he whispers, in a scratchy, guttural voice only the dying could copy. He doesn't wait for his nod; he knows it'll be there; and lets his eyelids slowly slip closed. One final intake of breath that was let out in a whoosh seconds later signaled his passing. The three of them couldn't hold back from letting everything out.

Hughes and Gracia sobbed and wailed, holding nothing back. Al placed his elbows on the bed and gripped Ed's free hand, pressing them to his forehead as he sobbed loudly. The only family he had left, gone in the night.

Three days later, when Edward Elric was being buried, at the age of 35, the three alone noticed the two doves twittering over their heads, spinning around each other and seeming very much happy and in love. Without looking away, they all smiled and waved to the two birds, gaining many stares from those surrounding them. No one else saw the birds.

On the grave beside the great rocket-scientist was carved quite clearly:

_"Edward Elric_

_Great friend, brother, and scientist._

_May this sinner find his angel"_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if this makes no sense. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. The end might seem a little choppy and weird but thats because I was already half-asleep when I started and I ended at 2 something in the morning. It didn't help that I even started crying while I was writing it. No, the disease isn't specified. I'm not even sure if it really exists or not. So use your imagination. Hughes is alive for certain reasons. No Ed was NOT old. He was 35. He just felt old. Plus in those days, you were old if you were even NEAR 30.


End file.
